the station at Poroy

I reach the station at Poroy an hour and a half early. Looked for a newspaper, couldn’t find any. The station is empty, but for an attendant sweeping. She is impressed by my Spanish.










“¿Por que estas en la estación antes de tiempo?”

I replied in my gringo Spanish that my host called the taxi a bit too early, thinking that I would be taking the earlier train.

At half past eight, attendants were on the move. A table was set with flowers and glasses at the platform. Champagne and a sign-in book were brought in.

I saw school-age kids trooping down through the gate and then huddled at the side of the station: the girls in red monteras and beaded polleras, and some of the boys wearing máscaras with mustaches drawn in.

I board the train first with a glass in one hand, the only passenger who has shown up so far. The cabin is as pristine and posh as any from the Orient Express.













I glance through the window and I see a van pull up the station: more passengers arrive.

The music began to play, the dancers emerge from their corner.